Christmas Lights
by fmapreshwab
Summary: A series of drabbles of Shawn and Lassie at Christmas Time! Written because Lassie is my favorite Grinch, rated for Lassie's language.
1. The Lights Around Town

A/N: I haven't written a one-shot in so many forevers, I'm kind of excited about it. I'm currently working on something a little more substantial for Psych, so if you like what you see, stay tuned, but as it stands, this little ficlet is my first attempt at Psych. I wrote it in an attempt to put myself in a Christmas-y mood this year, and I hope it does the same for you.

As far as content warning, I will reluctantly label this pre-Shassie, even though there's not a lot extra going on. I've decided that these things are like abstract paintings; if you squint and tilt your head to the left, you'll pretty much see whatever you want. Happy holidays and please don't sue me, because I don't own any of it.

* * *

><p>Detective Carlton Lassiter slammed the driver's side door shut on his Crown Vic and stared around his neighborhood, wondering exactly how many petitions he would have to file with the local realtor's association to get them to start putting such nuisances in their home listings. After all, a man had a right to know if he was going to be around such unabated idiocy every year. He glared around him, at every house he could see in the not-nearly-dark-enough night. Every house on his street was lit with bright, cheery, Christmas lights. Every house except his.<p>

Lassiter didn't know quite why he hated Christmas lights so much. He knew the reasons he gave himself, that the lights coming through his windows kept him awake at night, that the constant blinking gave him a headache, and he'd be damned if every single one wasn't a massive fire hazard, especially when they were all left unattended for so long, but he also knew there was more to it.

He had actually liked Christmas lights when he was younger. Back then, he had looked forward to helping in whatever little way his father would let him. He had made games of comparing the different designs and patterns his neighbors used. Back then, they heralded the beginning of his favorite time of year, with the promise that something amazing was on its way. Back then, they had meant something. Now they were just a hollow, neon reminder.

He realized as he walked up the sidewalk to his door that he was muttering to himself, probably the exact behavior which had all the neighborhood children frightened of him, and for some reason that made him smile. But as he walked past the window which opened on to his living room, he also realized that his house wasn't nearly as dark as it should have been. Or as empty.

Lassiter could practically feel himself slipping back into "cop mode" as he approached the door, treating his own home like a potential crime scene. Testing the door, he found it was still locked. He unlocked it as quietly as he could, being sure to stop the deadbolt from making the _clunk_ it always did. He slid the door open just enough to get himself through, avoiding the squeak of the hinges in the process.

Entering the living room, he could hear the hum of the microwave and see the light of the kitchen spilling in around the wall. _Wrong house, punk._ Putting his weight up on the balls of his feet, Lassiter crossed the living room slowly, making sure to side-step all the spots that he knew would make the floorboards creak. He held himself against the wall separating the two rooms for a moment, drawing his gun and trying to determine how many intruders he was dealing with.

Lassiter saw only one shadow, and all the noises he heard could be accounted for by the microwave. He grinned, knowing he would be getting the jump on a lone perp. He had been so quiet on his way across the living room that he hadn't even been able to hear himself, and there was no way anyone had heard him at the door from this distance.

Which all combined to make it that much more surprising when the voice on the other side of the wall addressed him. "You know, Lassie, you should have been home an hour ago."

Through the shock, his training took hold and, before he knew what he was doing, Lassiter swung around the corner to train his weapon on Shawn Spencer, holding a taco and leaning against the counter. His counter. In his kitchen. "Spencer!" The groan was half frustration, half rage. "What are—Why—In my house!"

Shawn looked up, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes playfully. "Was there a question in there?"

Carlton heard himself growl the low note that only this particular irritant could elicit from him. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Duh, eating a taco. You're late."

"I'm sorry?"

"You should be. Your dinner got cold." Just as he was beginning to wonder if this was what a stroke felt like, the ding of the microwave drew Lassiter's eye, and he saw a pair of tacos on a plate. "I went to your Tuesday taco place. It's Friday night, so I figure you haven't had them in long enough that they wouldn't be boring."

"How—?" Lassiter tried to ask, his eyes narrowing.

Spencer rolled his eyes again, putting a hand to his temple. "Remember? Psychic?"

Yeah, like Carlton hadn't seen him two cars back on that ridiculous bike of his, following him on his lunch break. He shook his head, turning to more important matters. Shawn had pulled the plate out of the microwave, putting his back to Lassiter, who looked once again at the gun in his hand, thinking of just how easy it would be. He shook his head again, holstering his sidearm. With his luck, Spencer would haunt him straight into the loony bin. "How did you get into my house?" His tone now was more curious than angry, something that seemed to encourage the would-be psychic.

"Back window."

"Was latched."

Spencer shrugged. "Yeah, but that means a lot less once the panes are removed."

Lassiter's eyes narrowed again. "You didn't."

"Believe what you want, but the only other explanation is that the spirits let me in."

Lassiter sighed, asking the last question on his mind. "Why are you here, Spencer?"

The man in question shook his head slowly and gave him an indulgent smile, the one that somehow always seemed to make him feel like the slowest kid in the class. "No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, Lassie. Not even you."

Lassiter crossed the kitchen, opened the fridge and pointedly ignored the large, gift-bowed pineapple on the top shelf. "You want a beer?" he asked without looking up.

"Boy, do I!" The light in Spencer's eyes was a little disconcerting, but Lassiter just sighed and tossed him a can. He grabbed his plate off the counter and walked back out into the living room, aware that Spencer was following his every move.

It was Friday, and that meant that the local True Crime channel would be having its weekly COPS marathon. As they watched (and later began to yell at) the brainless criminals engaged in various high- and low-speed chases, one beer became two, which somehow turned into five.

By midnight, Shawn was sleeping soundly through another episode, this one a rerun, curled firmly around Lassiter's shoulder, and Lassiter knew better than to try to send him home. The dishes, piled on the coffee table in front of them, could wait until tomorrow.

Lassiter turned the television off with a soft _click_, and, with its emanated light gone, the room was lit only by the Christmas lights outside. Lassiter sighed as he looked down at Spencer, sleeping peacefully and holding with an iron grip to Lassiter's arm. One night on the couch wouldn't kill him, he decided.

"Merry Christmas, Spencer," Lassiter whispered, settling back into the cushion of the couch. And as the merry red, green and blue lights danced and flashed their way across Shawn's face, Carlton decided that maybe they weren't so bad, after all.


	2. Twas the Day Before Christmas

A/N: I know I called this a one-shot to begin with, but I've recently been informed that I'm still not in the Christmas mood, so this just became a drabble series. To keep up the spirit, here's a new take on an old favorite. I own nothing.

Also, the paratheneses were the only way to fix the spacing, sorry.

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><p>Twas the day before Christmas,<p>

And all through the station

Lay the remains of the

SBPD holiday celebration.

()

Every officer's desk

Sported one empty chair.

Each gone home early

To celebrate with family there.

()

But smack in the middle,

Refusing to stop,

Surrounded by papers,

Sat one lone Irish cop.

()

Lassiter liked it here best

When it was empty and quiet.

He'd rather fight paperwork

Than the Christmas time riot.

()

But despite his best efforts,

He wasn't alone.

It seemed not everyone

Was quiet at home.

()

Lassiter heard the door slam,

And with no one to stop him,

Shawn Spencer ran up,

Deciding to drop in.

()

"Lassie, it's Christmas!

Why are you still at work?"

"Crime takes no holiday,"

Lassiter growled like a jerk.

()

"And why are you here?

Don't you have something to do?"

"Just spreading my Christmas cheer,

My Grinchy Lassie-poo!"

()

Shawn held out his hand,

Rainbow candy canes held within,

Enough for each officer,

Now off spending time with their kin.

()

Before Lassiter could stop him,

Spencer was off and away,

Spreading his cheer

To be found on Christmas day.

()

One for Buzz, one for Vick,

And of course one for Jules.

One for Snyder and Baker,

And even those drug unit tools.

()

He spread out his candies

But from Lassie refrained.

He's allergic to mint,

So no candy cane.

()

Shawn had known this to start,

And had come with a plan.

All he needed for now

Was to distract the man.

()

Shawn retrieved the candy

He'd left on Vick's desk,

Then slipped the door's lock,

Banging in protest.

()

"Spencer, what are you doing?"

Came Lassie's frustrated shout.

"I can't get through the door.

The chief locked me out!"

()

Lassie groaned and he sighed,

But Shawn heard him rise.

He came around the corner,

Viewing Shawn with stern eyes.

()

Shawn held the candy out in defense.

"I don't want her left out! Come on, Lassie, please?"

Lassie glared, then he sighed.

"Let me find the janitor's keys."

()

As he turned, Shawn ran back,

On his desk left a note,

Then was back by the door

Before Lassie the keys did tote.

()

He opened the door,

And Shawn scurried in.

Lassie watched him every step,

Not leaving him unsupervised within.

()

Then Lassiter locked up the door,

The keys he returned,

And found at his desk

A note that made his face burn.

()

_Lassie, you may not like Christmas,_

_But I love it so._

_To cheer you up, here,_

_Have some mistletoe._

_()_

Looking up, he saw Spencer,

A sprig in his hand.

Lassie glared his best glare,

Trying not to grin at the man.

()

Lassie leapt from his chair

As Spencer drew near,

And as Shawn moved forward,

Lassie backed off in fear.

()

Shawn laughed as he chased

From the desk to the hall.

In evidence, in records,

Lassie couldn't hide at all.

()

But Shawn heard him exclaim

Ere Lassie fled from his sight,

"If I have to get my gun, Spencer,

You die tonight!"

* * *

><p>More to come, I'm sure. Stay tuned.<p> 


	3. Santa's Biggest Little Helper

A/N: I don't own the characters, but if something doesn't sound familiar, I probably made it up. Now, let's get back to forcing Lassie into the Christmas spirit.

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><p>Carlton Lassiter flew into the Spencer home in a rage. "Where is he?" Lassiter could feel his face turning a deep, dark red as he stormed through the kitchen and entered the living room.<p>

For his part, Henry tried to cover his surprise with anger of his own, but failed as Lassiter came into sight. "Detective," Henry said, trying to keep his composure. He failed miserably after only a moment, and began to laugh uncontrollably.

Lassiter barely seemed to notice. He was on a mission. "I checked his apartment and Guster's, and I went to their office. That just leaves here. Now, where is Shawn?" He enunciated clearly this last sentence, wanting to make himself as forceful as possible, but nothing he said could stop Henry's laughter. He thought for a moment of the gun in his holster, but decided against it. Lassiter was saving his gun for someone else.

Henry stared at the floor, schooling his face into its usual mask. He swallowed, breathing deeply, then looked up only to start all over again. "I…I…haven't…haven't seen him…Carlton," he was barely able to gasp out, just as Lassiter's phone rang.

"Lassiter," the detective growled into the mouth piece. "I…but…," Lassiter tried to argue, but finally sighed. "Yes, Chief. Tell O'Hara to meet me there." Lassiter spared Henry one last glare as his face turned a subtly different shade of red.

"Crime scene?" Henry asked, almost sympathetic.

Lassiter nodded, setting the man off all over again. He could still hear the laughter as he climbed into his car and drove away.

* * *

><p>Lassiter sat in his car for a moment after he had arrived at the address specified in his call from the chief. The uniforms hadn't arrived yet, and, if he was quick, he could slip in and be on the scene before anyone was there to see him. But how long would that last? He'd have to face up to this eventually.<p>

Or he could call the chief back, tell her he was sick and spend the rest of the day hunting Spencer down. _No_, he thought, _I can't let Spencer stop me from arresting whatever scum would commit a murder two days before Christmas_. His mind was made up for him, however, when he noticed a distinctive blue car parked around the back of the building.

Grabbing his jacket and unholstering his sidearm, Lassiter made his way out of the car and toward the building. As he crossed the street, it occurred to him just how quiet it was, and he wondered if that could be explained entirely by the nearness of the holiday.

Lassiter entered the building and realized immediately that something was wrong. The lights were out, the widows were covered, and he was not alone. He could hear breathing all around him, and there, off in the corner, the shuffling of feet. He led his way further into the room with his gun leading the way into the darkness, and scowled just as the flash of a camera went off.

The lights came up immediately afterward, and Lassiter stood staring at the entirety of the Santa Barbara police department, complete with the two troublemakers who had been the object of his earlier search. There was a moment of silence as everyone in the room took in the situation, including the fact that Lassiter had yet to lower his gun from its position near Shawn's chest, and then they, like Henry, began to laugh.

Holstering his gun, Lassiter grabbed Spencer by the front of his shirt and dragged him half way across the room. "I can't imagine why you would do this, knowing what the consequences would be," he told Spencer in a low, menacing growl. "You have to realize that I _will_ kill you for this."

"A necessary sacrifice, Lassie," Shawn said through a wide grin. "You just…you look so festive!"

Lassiter would have liked another moment alone with Spencer to get all his threats and anger out of the way, but O'Hara stepped between them. "Carlton, come on, it's all in good fun, right? The spirit of the holidays?"

"Yeah, well, next Christmas he can break into _your_ house," Lassiter groused. He could see officers laughing at him from across the large room. "What are you all doing here if there's no crime scene, anyway?"

O'Hara smiled. "The chief thought it might be nice to rent the space for the Christmas party."

"You told me that was tomorrow."

"Because if I told you it was today, you never would have come."

Lassiter glared at his partner, the one person in the world he was supposed to be able to trust. "You knew."

Lassiter felt a tug on the hat which had been superglued to his head, and he turned to see Spencer, holding the bright, shiny ball at the end of the cap. "Really some of my finer work," Shawn gloated.

Lassiter had woken that morning to the sound of a slamming door. Grabbing his gun, he had cleared every room of his house before going into the bathroom. The hat was the easier to notice, a bright red and green cap ending in a golden bell. As he had tried to remove it, his heart had sunk. It was glued to his scalp. Turning to look in the drawer which should have contained the adhesive solvent from his Civil War reenactment days, he had noticed the ears. Also glued to his person were a set of pointed ears. And his solvent was missing. _Spencer_ had been the only word on his mind.

Coming back to the present, Lassiter grabbed Shawn by the wrist and twisted, but he seemed incapable of hurting the younger man. Materializing at his side, Guster leaned in and said to Lassiter, "When you report back to Santa, make sure you tell him this was all Shawn's idea. I'm a good boy, and I had nothing to do with it."

There was only one thing which could have cut through Lassiter's glare at that moment and, luckily for the two private detectives he had been fully ready to tear into, it had grabbed onto the back of his suit jacket and was currently tugging for his attention. Spinning around, Lassiter saw Lt. Snyder's young son.

"Mr. Elf, have those guys been naughty this year?"

Lassiter nodded. "They are two of the naughtiest boys in Santa Barbara," he told the tyke.

The young boy glared at Shawn and Gus. "If you're mean to Mr. Elf, he'll tell Santa on you." The boy turned back to Lassiter. "Is Santa as nice as all the movies say?"

A young girl had followed Snyder's son and, while he had never seen her before, her nose confirmed that she was Baker's daughter. "Do you really work with Santa?" the little girl asked in wonder.

Another young boy, probably one of Carmichael's, tugged on his sleeve. "How come you're so tall, Mr. Elf?"

Before he even knew what was happening, Lassiter had acquired something of a horde of police children. He sat with them in the corner of the room, telling them Christmas stories from his own youth and whatever else he could think of about the North Pole and Santa Claus, earning looks of wonder and respect. He took toy orders and pretended to make notes about how good each child thought they had been.

After over an hour of entertaining them, Lassiter sent the children off to find their parents and went back to confront Spencer. There was a twinkle in the psychic's eye as Lassiter approached. "Santa would be proud," he teased.

"I put my gun away," Lassiter informed him. "Now get this stuff off me before I change my mind."

"Elf shoots psychic," Shawn intoned, holding up an imaginary newspaper. "Christmas ruined in Santa Barbara."

"Now, Spencer," Lassiter said, but he couldn't quite make himself growl the words. Maybe being an elf had been…tolerable.

"Left jacket pocket," Shawn said, patting Lassiter on the shoulder and going to join Gus by the catering table.

Reaching into his pocket, Lassiter's fingers closed around the small tube of solvent he'd spent all morning looking for. Small fingers tugged his jacket once more. "Mr. Elf," a child who looked disturbingly like McNabb said. Lassiter was almost sure McNabb had never said anything about children, but he had been married for some time now, and, when he thought about it, he really didn't pay that much attention when McNabb spoke. _Come to think of it, whatever happened to the chief's daughter?_ The young boy looked up at him. "Will you ask Santa to keep my Daddy safe this Christmas?"

And Lassiter found that he couldn't say no. He dropped the solvent back into his pocket and followed the young boy back to the party. Today he would be an elf. He could go back to detective tomorrow.


	4. Don't Question Santa's Magic

A/N: I own none of the characters. I'm going to try to keep up one a day until Christmas, so look for a few more before we run out of time.

Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews, and, yes, I am feeling a little more Christmasy with every chapter.

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><p>Carlton Lassiter lay stretched out on his couch, enjoying another quiet holiday. At some point, O'Hara had learned to stop trying to change his Christmas traditions, to get him to socialize when it was clearly counter to his nature. And, really, Lassiter wasn't sure her nephews could handle another Christmas with him in their midst.<p>

And so here he was, laying on his couch and watching reruns of COPS on the True Crime network. Later, he would order Chinese food in his own little homage to The Christmas Story. He smiled, grabbing the afghan off the back of the couch and closing his eyes a moment.

Lassiter awoke to the sound of his doorbell. Maybe O'Hara hadn't learned her lesson after all. Grumbling to himself, Lassiter swung his legs over the edge of the couch and rose to answer the door.

As he opened the door, the detective glared, realizing that some punk kid on his block had ding dong ditched him. Sighing, he turned to reenter his house, barely noticing the red-and-green wrapped box on his doormat. Picking it up, he returned to his couch.

Lassiter eyed the box suspiciously. It bore a green ribbon and a card that read simply "Carlton". Turning it over, he saw that the card was signed "Santa". He held it against his ear, shook it slightly, and went to grab his gear. He opened the package carefully with a small knife from his drawer, careful only to cut the tape. The last thing he deeded was a bomb going off in his house because Spencer had once again let a group of criminals know where he lived.

As the paper fell open, Lassiter saw something that made him smile. The words "Home Bomb Disposal" were written across the box. The picture depicted two pre-teen boys diffusing a bomb on a kitchen table.

Leaving the box on his kitchen table, Lassiter walked back into the living room to watch a new criminal trying to win a foot race through a series of backyards. It might have gone well for the man, if he had had the capability to jump a fence. Instead, he climbed each one while the police force behind him practically flew over. Even though the footage was from a helicopter camera, Lassiter could see the panic on the thief's face, and he laughed again.

Just as he was beginning to settle back into the couch, he heard a crash in his back yard. Grabbing the nearest gun, the 45 taped to the underside of the couch, he rushed out the back door, sweeping the yard through the sight of his weapon. The only thing he noticed out of the ordinary was the shining red box at the base of his fence.

Refusing to drop the weapon in his hand, Lassiter walked swiftly over to the package, shook it, then turned to reenter his home. Another green ribbon and another note from "Santa". Lassiter grabbed the scissors off his counter and, cutting carefully along the taped seam, opened the package. "The Complete Clint Eastwood, with Commentaries" the cover read, and Lassiter grinned, shaking his head.

Setting the DVD set next to his television, Lassiter sat back down on his couch. He had trouble focusing on the high-speed car chase down a surprisingly empty highway as he tried to figure out who could be leaving the boxes. Clearly it wasn't really Santa. Clearly, he told himself. That would be ridiculous.

Settling back in to watch some idiot who clearly hadn't attended his eighth grade sex ed class try to shoplift by pretending he was pregnant. It was times like this that really took Lassiter's mind off all the horrible things he'd seen. At least, they would, if certain fictitious characters hadn't been right outside his door, pushing something through the mail slot.

Lassiter leapt up from the couch, throwing the door open, only to be faced by the walkway outside his door. There was no one to either side of his house, and no one in the street. As frustrated as he was by whoever had been leaving these packages, he had to admit, they were clever. And quick.

Lassiter grabbed the envelope up off the floor as he walked back to the couch. Sitting down, he opened the blue, snowflake-covered envelope. Within was a card which bore his name and, of course, that of the gift's supplier, "Santa". Behind the simple white card was a plastic card covered by a green bow. Removing the bow, Carlton saw that the gift card read "Sight & Barrel", the local gun supply shop.

Lassiter didn't know whether to grin or shout. He settled for setting the card onto the table and trying once more to watch COPS. A woman was trying to steal a child from a hospital, and Lassiter couldn't wait to see how that turned out for her.

An hour later, just as Lassiter was beginning to wonder if the packages were going to stop, and who could be leaving them, he heard a bump far above his head. Dust began to fall into the fireplace next to his couch. He sighed, beginning to wonder if he was losing his mind.

Without missing a beat, Lassiter raced outside into the front yard, only to see something disappear over the peak of the roof. Running through the house, Lassiter opened the back door just in time to see a green blur falling off his roof.

After the loud thud had reverberated for a moment, Lassiter ran out into the yard. Shawn Spencer was still lying on his back, not yet ready to move.

"Spencer," Lassiter growled, at once touched and infuriated. Shawn had been playing with his doorbell, running around his backyard, had climbed onto his roof! And had left him presents, something he wouldn't have had otherwise.

Spencer moaned from his position sunk into the ground. "Okay, Lassie, you caught me. I'm Batman. Wait…I mean…um…Santa."

Lassiter stood still for a moment, looking down on Spencer's helpless form. He leaned down, threading his arm under Spencer's shoulders. He pulled the younger man up from the ground, led him inside and laid him down on the couch.

"COPS on Christmas?" Shawn asked. "That's weak, dude."

Lassiter considered throwing the man out on his ass, but then he remembered what had led him to find Spencer in the first place. Looking into the fireplace, Lassiter saw the final package, wrapped in black with a big green bow. Opening the box, Lassiter withdrew a framed picture of a celebration at the police station. In the center of the frame stood Shawn with his arm around Lassiter, who was glaring playfully down at him. Guster and O'Hara flanked them, and the chief and the elder Spencer stood on the outside of the picture. McNabb stood in the background with a few of the other officers, but Buzz was the only officer tall enough to be seen beyond the detectives.

Lassiter looked down on Spencer again, smiling. "How did you get on my roof?"

Shawn spoke in a deep voice. "Ho ho ho. Don't question Santa's magic, little boy."


	5. A Cold Case Christmas

A/N: I'm really starting to love this story. Unfortunately, I don't own the characters, but I really enjoy using them to my own ends.

* * *

><p>Lassiter growled as he pushed open the station doors. It was the day before Christmas, a Saturday, and Lassiter was supposed to be at home, enjoying the holiday season to the best of his limited abilities.<p>

In fact, he had been at home, trying his damnedest to take a nap, when McNabb had called.

"Um, Detective Lassiter…."

"What is it, McNabb?" Lassiter was trying his best not to snap, because he knew that the stress would set McNabb to stuttering and babbling, and he might never find out why the officer had called.

"Sir, I think…I mean, you should…you're going to…."

"McNabb," Lassiter said, the sound coming from deep in his throat.

"You'll want to see this for yourself, sir," McNabb finally finished and Lassiter had hung up, realizing the he wouldn't be getting anything else from the conversation.

It occurred to Lassiter only now that McNabb could have been used as part of another elaborate set up—it would certainly explain the lack of details. Lassiter swore to himself that if this were another surprise Christmas party, he would shoot someone. He was still explaining to officer's children why his ears were round the rest of the year, something which had grown old immediately.

Rounding a corner, Lassiter knew something was wrong when he spotted the stack of folders on his desk. In preparation for his short vacation, he had finished all his paperwork and filed all his case notes, leaving his desk empty on Friday night. The red bows which ringed the edge of his desk were also a large hint that something was going on. "McNabb," Lassiter muttered, shaking his head.

As he drew nearer to his desk, he could see that something had been stuck to the top of his desk next to the stack of case files. There was a tree on his desk made of construction paper squares. In a simple pyramid pattern, six rows tall, the tree was made of 21 green squares of construction paper, three brown squares to form the trunk, and two blue pieces at the bottom, decorated to look like presents. Twenty six squares in total, glued to his desk, with "Merry Christmas Lassie" written across the top in sharpie.

Looking over at the pile of files on his desk, Lassiter realized that the cases had been pulled at random. They had an assortment of dates written in, none of them any more recent than four years ago. Some sounded familiar, others Lassiter had never heard of. He would have to re-file these before anyone noticed they were missing. There had to be at least twenty thick, manila folders, stacked nearly two feet high.

Lassiter sat down heavily in his chair. Racking his brain, he found he was unable to decide what, exactly, it was that he had done to Spencer to deserve such treatment. Clearly he had done something horrible to the man at some point, whether he realized it or not. It would take hours to clean all this up, and if he wanted it to be gone before his coworkers returned, he would be working on it Christmas day. So much for his plans. Such as they were.

Reaching down to test the glue on the first paper square, Lassiter was surprised to find that it came up with almost no effort. The paper hadn't been glued to his desk, it had been glued to a Polaroid. Flipping up the paper, Lassiter saw a mug shot with the words _Marvana Jewelry Store Robbery_ written under it in Spencer's sloppy, yet instantly recognizable, script. Looking over at the pile of case files, he saw that the first bore the label Marvana. Flipping through the case notes, Lassiter saw that the jewelry store robbery had never been solved. Turning the picture over, Lassiter saw that Shawn had left a note on the back. _He only did it because his wife needed chemo. See if you can get him some leniency?_

Lassiter picked up the next picture. _Convenience Store on Maple and Fourth_ the picture said. _You didn't get him because he ditched the boots at his girlfriend's house. He's probably picked them up by now._

Each of the green squares covered a mug shot related to an armed robbery, grand larceny, and, further down, drug crimes. The three criminals that made up the trunk of the tree were infamous arson cases that had remained unsolved for more than four years. Spencer's notes left hints to the evidence that could be found. _Check with the Goodwill he donates his clothes to for the shirt covered in the chemicals he uses_, one said. _You'll find the trophies he took from the crime scenes on his roof_, another told him.

Finally, Lassiter picked up one of the blue boxes at the base of the tree of criminals Spencer had left for him. Staring back at him was the mug shot of the bastard he had tried so hard to nail for the Mulroney murders two years ago. _You were right_ was the inscription across the bottom. On the back, Shawn went on to tell him _He sold his car right after moving the bodies, but if you can track down the buyer, there will still be traces of blood in the trunk_.

Under the other blue box, an unfamiliar face glared up at him. _Peterson Double Homicide_ the note read. That couldn't be right. Lassiter had worked that case, but he had never seen this man before. _Sorry, Lassie, the gardener's clean. It was a random carjacking, but he dumped the bodies at the house to clear himself of suspicion. He still has their car._ Lassiter had wanted the throw the book at that gardener, too.

Lassiter sifted through the files Spencer had pulled for him, and found a final note on the last folder in the stack. _Lassieface- There will be time for this on Monday. None of these guys are going anywhere, and the spirits told me I can guarantee the evidence will still be good in a couple of days. Go home, take a break, have Christmas. You earned it. Xs and Os. –Shawn_

Lassiter sighed, smiling slightly and shaking his head. "Son of a bitch," he muttered under his breath. Twenty six cases. Spencer had solved twenty six cold cases because he felt like it. Not for the first time, Lassiter thought about how glad he was that Spencer was on their side. Not that he would ever admit it. He wondered again what it was he had ever done to deserve this treatment from Spencer.

He was in such a good mood, he didn't even glare when he saw McNabb smiling from across the station. He just grabbed his coat and left the station, the tree still intact on his desk. Loathe as he was to admit it, Spencer was right. It could all wait until Monday.

Climbing into his car, just preparing to drive home, Lassiter made a decision. Maybe he'd drive by Spencer's apartment, make sure he hadn't done anything illegal to get those leads, do some yelling, see where the afternoon took him. Hell, maybe he'd even thank the man for getting him the best Christmas tree he'd ever had.


	6. Carol at Own Risk

A/N: I don't own either of the boys, but I totally wish I did. Also, I don't own Whoville. I'd also like to throw some acknowledgement Elske's way for totally being the inspiration behind this whole mess.

Now, what would Christmas be without carolers? Lassie's about to find out. I don't know where half of this stuff came from, but I totally love it. This chapter is easily the Christmasiest I've felt all year.

* * *

><p>Carlton Lassiter sat on his couch, cleaning his service weapon. It was dark outside, and quiet, just the way Lassiter liked it. It wasn't quite late yet, but the evening had been short, giving way to a long, clear, quiet night.<p>

Lassiter had taken to the habit of cleaning at least two of his guns every night. If anything ever happened, if he ever needed a weapon, he would need to be ready, no mistakes. Mistakes got people killed. He certainly wasn't just trying to find something to do. _No_, he told himself, _because that would just be sad._

The voices were soft at first, and Lassiter winced. If nothing else, he was sure they'd at least stay distant, vague. After all, he'd warned them. As he thought of all the altercations that had come before, his grip on the weapon tightened. They would stay away, he was sure.

There was silence for a time, but soon the voices were right outside, clear and loud and an unwelcome interruption. Gripping the butt of the gun, Lassiter strode purposefully over to the window, looking out at the group standing on his lawn.

Moving over to the door, he flipped the switched he'd had installed for just this sort of occasion. Lassiter closed his eyes and counted to three. By the time he hit three, he smiled at the screams and the sounds of retreat from his lawn. He flipped the switched off and heard the sprinklers retract. There was just one problem with his plan.

"We wish you a happy Christmas, we wish you a happy Christmas," a familiar voice was still singing. Lassiter opened his front door to see Shawn Spencer standing in the middle of his lawn, soaking wet. "We wish you a happy Christmas and a merry new year!"

"Spencer, it's _merry_ Christmas and _happy_ new year."

"I've heard it both ways," Spencer called from the lawn. He started walking to the front porch until he was standing on the doorstep to Lassiter's home, dripping and shaking slightly.

"Spencer, what the hell are you doing here?" Lassiter asked in a tired voice.

"Lassie, I live in an abandoned dry cleaners." Spencer's voice made it sound as though his answer should be obvious.

But Lassiter was lost. "So?"

"So all I have for neighbors are a bunch of fast food places and an old Radio Shack. And those guys are _no_ fun, especially around the holidays. They don't even show up. I'm a social butterfly, Lassie, and I gotta soar!"

"I still don't see how that answers my question."

Shawn _tutt_ed impatiently. "Will you hold on, Lassiepants? I'm getting there. So, since I don't have my own neighbors to hang out and do…neighbory things with, I go to other people's neighborhoods and neighbor it up with their neighbors."

Lassiter found it depressing how much sense that made. He'd definitely been spending too much time with Spencer. "So…."

"So once a week I meet up with the tenants at Gus's building for movie night, I'm a member of Jules's neighborhood watch, I'm in a book club with all the new moms on Vick's street, I'm all over caroling with the Johnsons—"

"The who?"

Shawn shot him a disapproving look. "Seriously, dude? They live right next door."

"So how long have you been…neighboring it up with the Johnsons?"

Shawn screwed up his face, trying to look like he was thinking. "Um…three, maybe four…."

_No._ "You've been in my neighborhood for four months without my knowledge?" _Impossible._

"Dude, no. First of all, it's been four _years_. Second of all, you'd know if you ever spent any time with any of these people. We totally missed you at the block party last month, Carly."

"There was a block party last month?"

"Yeah, we posted a flier on the "Community Center" telephone pole."

"There's a community pole? Let me guess, your idea?"

"Yeah, but there was totally a vote on the neighborhood website."

"My neighborhood has a website." Lassiter sighed, shaking his head and deciding not to care when or how that had happened. "None of this explains why you were caroling on my lawn."

"Were you following the story at all? I need neighbors, I highjack the neighbors of my friends, caroling with the Johnsons for four years now? Any of this getting through?"

_Friends? I'm his…we're friends?_ "Why _my_ house? I asked, I begged, I threatened! I told them I wanted them nowhere near my house! I told them last year that if they tried again, there would be consequences." Lassiter realized he was still holding his gun. He set the weapon on a small side table next to the door.

"And every year I convince them to come back," Shawn said with his biggest, most innocent grin.

Lassiter groaned. "For the love of Justice, _why?_ What did I do? How have I wronged you?"

Shawn made a loud _psh_ sound, scrunching his face in on itself. "Lassie, I'm just trying to show everybody that under your furry green exterior beats a heart that's two sizes too big!"

"What?"

"Dude, I don't know, I never make it to the end of that movie. It's always last on the list, and by then I'm always all eggnogged up. I end up face down, passed out on my living room floor. And then the weirdly deep-voiced announcer guy says something about his heart is too many bigs, and I have creepy Whoville nightmares."

Lassiter sighed, putting his hand to his forehead. He didn't know how to start correcting any of that mess, so he ignored it. But he couldn't let that last part go. "Whoville nightmares?"

"You've never had the Whoville nightmare? It's a classic! You're tied to the big tree in the middle of town, and the little Whos light the tree on fire, and they stand around and hold hands and sing while you burn alive. I thought everybody had that one."

Lassiter stared at Spencer for a moment, soaked and shaking and cold and crazy. "You…. That…. It just…." Lassiter sighed. "Eggnog, huh?"

"Every year."

Lassiter smiled. "I have eggs. And, uh…rum."

"If you promise not to try to combine them, you've got yourself a deal," Spencer said, stepping past Lassiter and into the house.

Something occurred to Lassiter then. "What do you do in your dad's neighborhood?"

"Please, Lassie! I spent my first eighteen neighboring years on those people. It's time to spread the love, baby!" Spencer looked back as he crossed the living room. "Besides, Dad kinda ruined those guys for me. Turns out cops make lousy neighbors," Shawn said with a wink. "Who knew?"


	7. The Great Pineapple Parade

A/N: I don't own Lassiter or Shawn, and I have no idea if Santa Barbara has a parade, but I'm kind of proud of the idea of the pineapple omelet.

* * *

><p>There was a time, Carlton Lassiter was sure, when waking up on his couch next to Shawn Spencer would have annoyed and confused him. Hell, there was probably a time when he would have take the "shoot first, ask questions later" mentality to heart in a situation like this. But somehow, over the years, waking up next to Spencer with various bottles and cans of alcohol littering his living room floor had become as much a part of Christmas as tacos and a good COPS marathon. Lassiter was certain this meant something important and disturbing about his life, but, for the moment at least, he was too hung over to care.<p>

Lassiter tugged on his right arm a little, trying to pull it loose from behind Shawn's back without waking the younger man. Spencer mumbled a little in his sleep about the Whos, causing a deep grin to spread across Lassiter's face at the memory of throwing beer cans at the Grinch the night before, but Shawn didn't wake up. Lassiter finished disentangling himself and walked quietly into the kitchen. It was probably at least 11 o' clock in the morning, but it was time for breakfast all the same. After all, Christmas breakfast had, at some point, become an important meal of the day.

This was not the first time Lassiter had made Christmas breakfast with Spencer in his home. The first year, he had made pancakes using the pineapple Shawn had brought with him when he'd broken into the detective's house. It had been a joke at the time, but Spencer had insisted the next year that it was a tradition. And so Lassiter had made, in the three years previous, pineapple pancakes, pineapple oatmeal, and pineapple infused omelets. He had tried to make pineapple waffles one year, but Shawn had insisted that that was cheating.

For this year, Lassiter decided, it would be pineapple biscuits. He didn't know why he allowed Spencer's insane rules to dictate so much of his life, but at this point he saw it more as a challenge than an irritation. As with every other Christmas he'd spent since Shawn Spencer had forced himself into his life, Lassiter found there was a large pineapple bearing a bow sitting on the top shelf of his refrigerator.

Lassiter, much to his own surprise, found himself humming the Grinch's theme song as he worked. He thought nothing of the shuffling he heard in his living room as he put the disgustingly yellow biscuits into the oven. _I'm sure that'll bake out._

He didn't think twice about what Spencer could be up to until he heard his television blaring from the next room. Knowing Spencer was up to something was like knowing that the sun rose in the east. It was always figuring out what, exactly, he was up to that gave Lassiter such headaches.

Coming around the corner into the living room, Lassiter didn't know what to be mad about first. The television's volume had been turned up as loud as it would go, and the channel was set the Santa Barbara's annual Christmas Day parade. The buttons, it seemed from where Lassiter stood, had been forcibly popped off the side of the television, and the panel to access any other controls had been duct taped shut. And, of course, the remote was nowhere to be seen.

Lassiter hated parades. He couldn't think of a single use for them other than to irritate reasonable people. Some singer who was apparently quite famous, but of whom Lassiter had never heard, was standing on a stage in the middle of the city's largest park, lip singing poorly to her own song. As she pretended to sing, a giant inflated Snoopy was pulled past by a team of at least forty large men. There was no point, no purpose, just grown men pulling an inflated dog through the streets of his city. In the crowd, at least four people were being pick-pocketed even as Lassiter watched, and he knew that the detours caused by the spectacle would cause an untold number of traffic collisions. A fantastic day to be a uniformed officer if ever there was one, Lassiter was sure.

Lassiter tried to yell for Spencer, who was conspicuously absent from his place on the couch, but his voice couldn't rise over the cacophony issuing from the television. _I'll be lucky if no one calls in a noise complaint._ "Spencer!" he yelled again, and that time he had almost heard himself.

Shawn came around the corner, a grin lighting up his face. He shouted something that Lassiter could have sworn was "I like the way your house smells", then rushed sidelong into the kitchen.

The noise was diminished by the wall between the TV and the kitchen, so, with some effort, the two were able to have a conversation. "Spencer, what the hell did you do to my television?" Lassiter shouted just loud enough to be heard.

"Re-max, I maybe short to fish it!"

Now, that couldn't be right. "What?"

"I said, relax. I'm pretty sure I can fix it!"

"What do you mean, pretty sure?"

"For now, I mean we're watching the parade!"

"Where's my remote, Spencer?"

"I flossed it!"

"What?"

"I lost it?"

"What do you mean, you lost it? Where?"

"Now, if I knew that, would it be lost?"

Neither heard the oven beeping until the young girl on the stage finished her song, and the camera went back to the two hosts of the event, two local news personalities Lassiter had never taken the time to become familiar with.

Lassiter cursed as he rushed over to the oven, grabbing the oven mitts and removing the still-disgustingly yellow biscuits. He tried not to grimace as he looked them over.

"Dude, that's brilliant! We can use these things to clog the speakers on your TV!" Spencer picked up one of the pastries and crushed in his hand.

Lassiter groaned as he watched it ooze between Spencer's fingers and drip to the floor. _Definitely too much pineapple._ Lassiter shook his head. _They can't be_ that _bad._ He grabbed one of the biscuits off the tray and took a bite, doing his best to keep the food in his mouth as he chewed it up. _This is easily the worst thing I've ever tasted. Come on, Lassiter, gut it out. It's not that bad._ Maybe if he convinced himself, he could get Spencer to eat one.

"Lassie, why do you look like you just got shot?" Shawn shouted over the beginning of the next performer's song. He sniffed the biscuit still mushed in his hand and licked it, letting the chunk he had taken roll off his tongue to the floor. "That is awful, and you should be ashamed. Now, you come watch this parade with me!"

"Spencer! Tell me where the damned remote is and give me back the control buttons! I'm not watching any damned parade!"

Shawn shook his head. "So sweary, and on Christmas! Come on, Lassie. You watch the parade, then I promise I'll ask the spirits where you left your remote!"

"Where I left…Spencer, you're the one who…augh! Fine, I'll watch the damn parade with you!"

Shawn's smile widened. "Oh, goody! I'll grab the awful jaundice biscuits!"

* * *

><p>We're getting close, and I think I have one more in me. Stay tuned, the next one brings it all together.<p> 


	8. Kindred Spirits with Christmas Spirit

A/N: I don't own Lassie or Shawn (or Gus or Jules or Buzz or Shawn's dad), but I do own the memories. I also have no idea what is in the California penal code, so you can't use me as a reference point.

Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, happy Kwanza, happy Winter Solstice, and, yes, happy Festivus (before you even start with the jokes, it's an old Greek holiday tradition that Seinfeld bastardized for their own purposes). Happy general-purpose Holidays! -fmapreshwab

* * *

><p>Shawn Spencer sat on the couch in his living room, trying to come up with this year's Christmas theme. He ticked off the old themes as he flipped through his book of Christmastime triumphs. It was a scrap book of sorts, full of pictures of all the best Christmas moments he wanted to remember. Most of the pictures were of poor quality, having been taken on his phone, but they sparked the memories all the same, and Shawn's memory was better than any photo.<p>

There had been the first Christmas he'd had after coming back to Santa Barbara, the first time he'd broken into Lassie's house (well, the first time Lassie _knew_ about it, anyway). From the book in his hand, Lassie scowled up at him, half a taco coming out of his mouth. There was also a great shot of Lassie swinging into the kitchen with his gun up, and one of Lassie, on his third beer, screaming at the TV. Shawn grinned. The Year of the Tacos had been a great start to their little tradition.

But the next year had topped it. The very first picture was a gem: Lassie with his gun out and his ears on, entering the warehouse in which they'd had their party. Shawn had been able to get a great shot of the elf surrounded by children as he told the tale of Santa's big break in the gun running ring case, and, of course, the time when the children had mobbed him, knocking him to the floor. The look on his face was priceless. Of course, Shawn had paid the next day. The next picture in the album was Shawn lying on Lassie's couch, moments after falling off Lassie's roof. He'd had to wear a back brace for two weeks after that one. The Year of Santa and his Little Helper had been costly, but worth every second.

Turning the page, Shawn looked down on one of his favorite achievements. The station was empty in the picture, but for the two of them. Lassiter looked furious, and he probably had been. Shawn had finally cornered him in one of the interrogation rooms and, holding the mistletoe above their heads, had given him a wet, sloppy kiss on the cheek. This picture was surrounded by more of Lassiter trying to flee, for all the good it had done him. Lassie's attempts to flee had made the Year of the Mistletoe more fun than Shawn had thought it would be.

Next had come the Year of the Grinch. Shawn shuddered as he remembered finally, _finally_ watching that movie to the finish, and having all the more vivid nightmares because of it. That year's page was decorated with a lovely photo of Shawn sitting on Lassie's couch, looking like a drowned rat after Lassie had turned the sprinklers on the carolers in his yard. Shawn also had the bright yellow biscuits Lassie had tried to choke down, and the red face he had turned on Shawn as he realized he couldn't avoid watching the Christmas Day parade. Truth be told, Shawn hated parades almost as much as Lassie (no one hated anything as much as Lassie hated just about everything), but he had loved watching the detective squirm over it.

Then, of course, there had been last year. Last year, the Year of Lassie's Christmas Tree, was one of Shawn's favorites. He had been so proud of the idea that he had asked Buzz to take a few discreet pictures that day as the situation unfolded. There was angry Lassie, glaring down at his desk as he first entered the station; there was confused Lassie, holding up the first picture and trying to wrap his head around what was going on; and, Shawn's personal triumph, the oft-spoken of, rarely-seen, mythical, magical pleased and begrudgingly impressed Lassie, staring down at his desk and smiling. If Lassie knew these pictures existed, he would break Buzz's camera, then his arm, then he'd come after Shawn. But it was worth it to have this particular memory.

This year…this year needed to be good. This year needed to be spectacular. Shawn refused to let this be the year he ran out of ideas. Maybe a "Little Drummer Boy" theme; there was something there, he was sure of it. Usually he didn't have to think this hard. Usually something popped into his head in September that he could use. Usually it wasn't Christmas Eve by the time he really started putting work into it.

Shawn was startled out of his rambling thoughts by the screech of tires and a heavy knock at his door. Looking through the window as he crossed the room, Shawn could see a yellow taxi speeding away. The knock came again. "I'm coming, keep your pants on!" Ordinarily, Shawn never gave that advice. To anyone. But he was grouchy and idealess and someone was intruding on his Christmas fun.

He opened the door to see Carlton Lassiter standing on his doorstep. "Lassie?"

"Ha!" the detective said triumphantly. "That cabby said nobody lived here. I was right."

Shawn nodded, not really caring whether or not Lassiter had harassed the cab driver because, really, who didn't already know the answer to _that_ question. "What brings you to my humble casa de Spencer?"

Lassiter looked at him as if seeing him for the first time, then remembered why he had come. A sheen of triumph shone in his eyes. "I've got you pegged, Spencer," he said, his finger digging into Shawn's chest. "I've finally figured you out. Now that I've _finally_ got it, I can't believe it took me so long to see it."

_Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap_. This couldn't be good. "Wha'd'you mean, Lassie face from outer space?"

"You're a fake."

CRAP! CRAPCRAPCRAP! "I…I don't know what you're talking about, Carly Charlie." _Why do I go so far on the nicknames when I'm nervous? Reel it in, Shawny boy._

Lassie was grinning the grin of the insane, and his voice was too loud. "All this time, you've had all of us fooled into thinking you're so special. For all your charm and your wit and your craziness, you—you're no different than me!"

Lassie was on to something. But then, from the breath Shawn could smell all the way inside the house, Lassie was also very, very drunk. "Lassie, buddy, you've been drinking, maybe you should—"

But Lassiter wouldn't hear of it. "That's point the not…that's…. Shut up, Spencer. All these years, and I thought you felt sorry for me!"

_Wait, what?_ "Wait…_what_?" Shawn was less and less sure as the seconds went by that he was as screwed as he had thought he must be. "What are you talking about, Lassie?"

Lassie was poking him in the chest again. Now and then, he would miss and Shawn would get a finger in the soft spot between his ribs. "You're just like me. You're alone on Christmas because everyone you give a crap about has plans. That's it, isn't it? That's why you come to me every year!"

"Is-is that what this is about?"

Lucky for Shawn, Lassiter wasn't quite far gone enough to be slurring his words, or he might never have been able to decode the loud, fast speech that followed. "Guster and O'Hara both have functioning families to spend time with, and you can't stand being in a room alone with your father for the whole holiday, so you come and find the only other person in the world who's as screwed up and alone as you! Every year, I try to have a quiet, True Crime Christmas, and every year, just when I think I might make it through an episode of COPS uninterrupted, you show up with your cheer and your smile and your Christmas spirit…. Well, this year, I'm showing up and spending Christmas with you!"

"You-you want to spend Christmas with me?"

"It doesn't really seem to be up to me, does it? But, yeah, weirdly enough, on Christmas you're the least annoying person I know."

Shawn chose to take Lassie at his spirit rather than his word. "You wanna help me give the guys at Radio Shack a white Christmas?" Shawn grinned, holding up a roll of toilet paper.

"You bet your ass, Spencer."

The two grabbed the rest of the package of toilet paper and made their way across the street. "You know this is vandalism, right?" Shawn asked, looking sideways to the still-drunk detective.

Lassiter spoke without looking at Shawn. "According to California penal code 443-22.9, vandalism refers to any malicious act which defaces or damages public or private property. Therefore, if there is no malicious intent, there is no vandalism. We're taking time out of our Christmas Eve to brighten their holdiay season. That sounds pretty far from malicious to me. And if anybody tried to give us crap, I've got my badge and my service weapon on me."

"Dude, you need a life in just the _worst_ way. That said, I love that you know that. It's so..._hot_."

"It-I...what?" Lassiter stammered, the way only Shawn could make him.

Shawn waggled his eyebrows at the taller man. "Race ya!" And Shawn took off, running down the street, followed quickly by Lassiter.

And so this would be remembered as the Year Christmas was Turned on Its Head, when Lassie came to find Shawn and they worked together to piss off the night manager of the Radio Shack Shawn had been so sure was closed Christmas Eve.

_Oops._


End file.
